Ian is sitting on my knees, galloping like Clint Eastwood. Between laughs, he’s trying to say the horsey-riding rhyme my father used with me:
‘Horsey, horsey carry me
over the land and through the sea,
…
and if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Amen!’
Last night we went to a Mexican restaurant with our friends, CJ and Keri. I had the ‘Chori Pollo’, which is just fun to say.
Ian had a quesadilla, and sat next to Keri. We try to avoid having Ian sit next to friends during meals—the kid goes through more forks than Neptune—but each time she moved to the opposite side of the table, Ian followed.
We hadn’t seen our friends in quite a while, and Ian was swept to the side of our catching up. He was bored, hadn’t had a nap, and was fading fast. As Ian ate, he listed more and more toward the edge of the table. He rested his head on his arm, and nibbled at his food.
I don’t know if he fell asleep. He certainly had a dazed and unfocused look about him as he picked himself off the floor. We couldn’t help it: we started laughing, all of us. He just looked so confused, and the sudden THWACK! as he hit the floor was so perfectly timed…Curly couldn’t've done it better.
But we were the only ones. Everyone around us was silent, and looked concerned. A woman across from me scowled. The man behind her spoke urgently into his cellphone. The cook slapped his spatula menacingly into his hand. Our check arrived, mintless.
Ian was fine. He wasn’t crying or upset. He wasn’t cradling any limbs. Regardless, I knew Ian was okay the moment he hit the floor. Like grandma choosing a ripe melon, parents can hear the difference between a bruise and a trip to the emergency room. If I’d heard a CRACK!, I would’ve been worried. A THONK! would’ve sent me rushing to his side. Plus, he was conscious.
We’ve resigned ourselves to the fact that Ian’s clumsy, a boy, and three years old. Now we just need to spread the word.
Do they make a bumper sticker for that kind of thing?
Last night, Ian and I were huddled next to a space-heater on the living room floor. We were playing with a toy from a future where police officers and firefighters have overcome their differences, and share a rescue station designed by IKEA. And the police fly Kingcobras.
Then, in the middle of a fire/drug bust, Ian started to stand. He made a whirring sound and held his arms to his sides. His body was rigid, and moved slowly.
‘Uh oh. Are you a robot now?’
He brought his chin to his chest and deepened his voice, speaking in monotone. ‘Yes…I…am.’
‘No! Don’t step on me! Please!’ I crossed my arms in front of my face.
‘I’m a good robot! I want to show you my robot room.’ He took my hand, and led me from the room.
At the door, he suddenly stopped and locked his legs. He made the whirring sound again, the pitch falling, and slowly dropped to his knees. ‘I’m broken.’
‘Oh! I can’t fix you; your tools are upstairs.’ Ian briefly poked his head through the robot, and corrected me: ‘No, no. I have a key!’ He pointed to his back.
I gave the key a few turns, and the robot whirred back to life. He stood and took me to the robot room for his much-needed tune-up.
Infant Joy
By William Blake
‘I have no name:
I am but two days old.’
What shall I call thee?
‘I happy am,
Joy is my name.’
Sweet joy befall thee!
Pretty joy!
Sweet joy, but two days old.
Sweet Joy I call thee:
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while;
Sweet joy befall thee!
Ian loves machines and factories. If he’s making a mess, it’s usually not his fault: it’s ‘the machine’. His arms lift, his hands grab and pinch, and everything moves with a rumble or roar or whine. A while ago, I was searching YouTube for clips from one of our family’s favorite shows, How It’s Made. I found a few, but this was my bestest prize.
I don’t know if it’s the Mannheim Steamroller-esque music or the factory worker who looks like my grandma, but this has to be my favorite Sesame Street short. Ever. And it’s still being broadcast!
Sometimes, it ain’t so bad.
‘Their conversation meanders on to golf and women and work. I eat my food, and I can’t taste it. I think, though my own three boys are near to killing me, that I’ll take all of them, all the children not wanted because they don’t fit someone’s lifestyle. You sit on a bar stool in an airport and laugh out your contempt and you think they don’t know, but they know. They always know.’
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Sand in the Gears
For dinner last night, we had chicken-noodle soup with homemade biscuits. Ian wanted his with peanut butter and jelly; the biscuit, not the soup. You’d think a peanut-butter-jelly sandwich on a buttery, fresh-from-the-oven biscuit wouldn’t last long in the hands of a three-year-old. Twenty minutes later, you’d realize you were wrong.
We had last-minute plans to visit a bookstore, and stop for rice-krispie treat fixin’s on the way home. I wanted to get the show on the road.
‘Ian, if you don’t hurry we won’t have time to make rice-krispies.’
‘Booooooooooo!’
Ian loves to snuggle, but with no one so much as his Mommy. I’ll get a hug if I ask for it; two or three if I force the issue. He gives me Pavlovian pecks on the cheek as I leave for work. But after his bath, when he’s warm and nestled in his pajamas, it’s Kelly’s lap he seeks. I wash, I dry, I dress, and I’m left holding the towel.
So I’ll admit it: I love when Ian’s sick. Sure he’s sniffly and gooey and his nose is crusted with snot-frost. Yes, his body is wracked with hacking coughs. But from that misery comes the sweetest joy of a doleful three-year-old looking for solace.
I stayed home with Ian on Friday night, while Kelly helped with her mother’s improv show. We drank tea and watched Curious George. I gave him a bubble bath. At least five times throughout the evening, Ian launched himself at me, and wrapped his arms around my chest. ‘I love you!’
Ian seems to be feeling better today. Anyone need a play-date for their sick kid?
you cough, and syrup
is your balm; you’re sick and we
snuggle, which is mine.
Father’s Song
By Gregory Orr
Yesterday, against admonishment,
my daughter balanced on the couch back,
fell and cut her mouth.
Because I saw it happen I knew
she was not hurt, and yet
a child’s blood so red
it stops a father’s heart.
My daughter cried her tears;
I held some ice
against her lip.
That was the end of it.
Round and round: bow and kiss.
I try to teach her caution;
she tried to teach me risk.
